for e.m.
like a cracked black stone
upon which the water has always dropped,
the stone opening further and further
under the soft wet fall--
or the endless shadowed stretch and furl,
the vast ebb and flow of wings
inherent to ascending giant birds, eagles,
vultures,
the rhythm of wings' arcing movement
toward the bone-white sun--
like the trace
of shadow
in the groove
of tree bark
pressed to liquid black
against its lit grain--
i open the depths of myself
to the rhythm of your stroke,
my Lord--i open my darkness
to your broad pattern.
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